


Craving

by lacking



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Thorin, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4988164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacking/pseuds/lacking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin isn’t sure how to describe it, other than to say that sometimes, Bilbo gets into a <em>mood.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Craving

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Bagginshield Alphabet](http://bagginshieldalphabet.tumblr.com/) going on at tumblr. Posted here because it grew much longer and smuttier than I had planned for.

Thorin isn’t sure how to describe it, other than to say that sometimes, Bilbo gets into a _mood_.

Bilbo is quick to blame his Tookish blood for it, claiming it’s no fault of his own when he rises from bed in the middle of the night in desperate need of a snack, insisting it simply can’t be helped when he starts growing restless during the winter months and takes to throwing open the bedroom window at odd intervals, as if he’s apt to wilt like a flower should he be forced to suffer another moment without the light of the sun. Thorin can even recall one particular occasion at a tapestry shop in Dale when Bilbo, who had never much cared for the artistry of Men, became utterly smitten with a simple wall-hanging depicting a lush green field. He had spent the following hour all but _pouting_ in Thorin’s general direction as they travelled through the marketplace, until Thorin finally relented and agreed to the purchase.

At first, the quality had befuddled Thorin, seemingly at odds with Bilbo’s ever-present practicality and reason. Not long after it grew to amuse him, a quirk that was as endearing as it was unfamiliar, not unlike Bilbo’s furred feet or his insistent, snippy mannerisms. And now, after two idyllic years of marriage, Thorin’s grown well accustomed to the odd times when Bilbo wants something with such ferocity it seems as though he will simply shrivel and die from the lack of it. 

It is, however, fair to say that Thorin is not always prepared to find _himself_ targeted as the cause of such a sudden, all-consuming craving. 

 

 

Thorin awakens slowly, growing aware of his surroundings in disjointed pieces: silk sheets against his bare chest and sunlight on his face, the breeze trickling in from the window he left ajar the night before. He’s lying on his belly with his arms curled beneath the pillow under his head, his hair braided and trailing outwards like a thick rope over his shoulder, a few stray strands coiled over his ear. There’s a comfortable weight resting atop his back at an angle, a short, curled leg tucked upwards and thrown over his hip. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, eyes closed, his voice muffled by the pillow pressing against his cheek. “I’m sleeping.”

“Dreaming, you mean?” Bilbo asks, low and lusty, his hands curling over Thorin’s ribs. His wet tongue flickers out, dabbing at a thin scar that cuts across Thorin’s shoulder.

“I do not,” Thorin rumbles, the edge of his mouth lifting when Bilbo huffs indignantly against him.

“Thorin,” Bilbo groans. He wriggles further onto Thorin’s back, his knees now resting on either-side of his hips. His nightshirt has ridden up, for Thorin can feel the soft curve of Bilbo’s stomach pressing warmly against his spine. “I want you.”

Something like heat stirs low in Thorin’s belly as nibbling teeth are set against his neck. Still, tempted though he is, it would not do to give Bilbo whatever he likes so easily. 

Thorin feigns a wide yawn, snuggling further into the comfort of the bed.

Bilbo pauses, sniffs, but then he’s pressing close once more, rubbing his cheek against Thorin’s skin like a needy cat, his hips nudging forward. Thorin bites the inside of cheek, realizing Bilbo is already half-hard for him, his cock warm and pulsing against the small of his back. 

“ _Thorin_ …”

Thorin sighs. It’s a lovely way for his name to be spoken, truly. Breathless and low, as if dangling off the coaxed tip of a moan.

“You would be nearly irresistible were you not whining,” Thorin says.

Bilbo makes a sputtering sound, and Thorin delights in imagining his pert nose wrinkling up in annoyance, the downturned edges of his lush, pink mouth. The press of Bilbo’s cock and belly disappear as he sits up, his palms laying flat against Thorin’s shoulders for balance. 

“Well, fine! I suppose I shall simply have to take matters into my own… hand.”

Thorin cracks open an eye at that, unsurprised to find Bilbo looking somewhat pleased with himself, taken by his own pun.

“If you must.” Thorin shrugs. He forces himself to pause before continuing, just long enough for Bilbo’s weight to shift as he prepares to dismount. 

“All though, I did not expect you to give up so quickly.”

Bilbo tilts his head, bronze curls drifting over his eyes as his face splits into a cheeky little grin that Thorin has never seen him bestow on any other but himself.

“Is that a challenge, O King?” 

“Merely an observation.”

“I’m sure. Here, hold this for me.”

Bilbo stretches an arm out to retrieve something from the bedside table, slipping his hand beneath the pillow to press it into Thorin’s open palm as he settles on top of him once more. Thorin’s fingers clench around cold metal, and he recognizes the object instantly as the silver flask of oil they failed to put away two nights before. 

“What are you planning?” Thorin asks, quirking an eyebrow, amused when Bilbo only wiggles his own in response.

Bilbo draws his fingers down the knitted length of Thorin’s hair, pausing at the end to untie the leather cord holding it in place. He takes his time in unweaving the tendrils, pressing a dry kiss to Thorin’s scalp as his fingers work. Thorin makes no effort to help or deter him, content to close his eyes and wait, the small fire warming his belly spreading through his body at a slow, unhurried pace. 

There’s a wet sound near his ear, and then Bilbo’s palms are skittering over Thorin’s sides, pushing in-between his chest and the mattress until spit-slickened fingers are grazing over Thorin’s nipples. There’s little room for Bilbo to maneuver, but still he manages to rub and pinch, taking one bud tight between two fingers as he soothes the over with the soft drag of his knuckle. He alternates between them, an enticing mix of harsh and mollifying touches, making a pleased sound when Thorin starts to twitch and squirm. Thorin locks his jaw, caging a moan behind his teeth, though he cannot seem to help himself when Bilbo pinches both nipples at once, arching away from the bed and into his touch, a reedy whine rising in his throat.

“Do you know the tips of your ears grow red when you’re aroused?” Bilbo asks conversationally, pressing a kiss again the round curve of Thorin’s ear before following the shape of it with his tongue. 

“I recall you saying something like that before,” Thorin says, pleased by the steady timbre of his own voice. 

Bilbo seems less happy with his composure, tsking as he takes back one arm while keeping the other tucked just where it is, his rolling fingers serving as an unwavering, whispering tease of stimulation. He drags his free hand up along Thorin’s side, tracing the hard lines of his body, pausing now and then to glide over the pale outline of an old scar. Slowly, Bilbo’s fingers slip beneath the thick fall of Thorin’s hair, short nails dragging over his scalp as kisses are pressed tenderly against the base of his neck. 

Thorin doesn’t know when the tremors start. He feels as though every nerve in his body is prickling, coaxed to stand at attention by Bilbo’s gentle touch, shivering beneath every sweep of his hand or mouth. His nipple is released with a final pinch, and a soft gasp bursts from Thorin’s lips when Bilbo almost completely pulls away only to come right back, both hands gripping hard at Thorin’s shoulders as he _rocks_ against him, his full and heavy cock riding over the swell of Thorin’s arse. 

“Oh,” Bilbo croons. “You feel so good.”

“You’re insatiable,” Thorin pants. His cock gives an unfulfilled pulse between his legs, caught beneath his own girth and the mattress.

“Maybe I’ll just finish like this,” Bilbo murmurs, his lips bumbling against Thorin’s skin, the wretched little tease.

Thorin grits his teeth, lifting his head from the pillow and twisting around just enough so he can glare at Bilbo without knocking him off. 

“Don’t you dare.”

“Mm?” 

Bilbo hasn’t stopped moving. He rolls his hips and gasps, his eyes fluttering shut from a moment, colour high on cheeks. Whatever else Thorin wishes to say withers in his mouth as he watches Bilbo draw his bottom lip up between his teeth, his tongue slithering out afterwards to soothe the scrape, leaving behind a slick, glistening wetness that Thorin wants to touch or taste for himself. 

“And here I thought you weren’t interested…”

Thorin almost doesn’t hear, entranced as he is with the show of Bilbo’s pleasure. The spell is broken only when Bilbo stops moving, his alluring mouth curving into a slow smirk. Thorin growls in response, rising up onto elbows only to have Bilbo sway and try to push him back down.

“No, no, stop that. You’re perfect as you are. Just lift your hips a little.”

Thorin blows out a noisy sigh but does as he’s told, turning around and settling once more onto his stomach. Bilbo’s weight slithers backwards, the bed dipping between Thorin’s open thighs where he comes to a stop. He plucks at the waistband of Thorin’s sleeping-trousers, pulling them down slowly over his thighs, knees, and ankles, and Thorin’s cock springs free against his belly with a faint slap. Thorin tucks his chin again his collarbone, pushes up and away from the bed just enough to catch sight of his furred chest and peaked, swollen nipples, his fluttering stomach and the red crown of his prick, a glistening bead of fluid marking the tip.

“Stop admiring yourself,” Bilbo chides, laughing a little as he palms a cheek of Thorin’s arse, fingers barely drifting over the crack as he urges his waist back down towards the mattress. Thorin shivers at the glide of silk along his cock, faintly registering the fluttering sound of Bilbo discarding his own garment. A touch to the back of his knee causes him to pull his leg upwards towards his body, spreading himself.

“Give me the flask, Thorin.”

Thorin blinks, his fingers twitching around the small container still clutched in his hand, the metal now blood warm against his skin. He passes it off to Bilbo blindly, pushing his pillow aside once the flask has been plucked from his fingers, curling his arms beneath his head and resting his chin comfortably on top, nearly trembling with anticipation for what’s to come.

The cork pops, and Thorin imagines Bilbo pulling it free with his teeth just as a shockingly warm stream of oil is poured over him. It traveles downwards in a thick rivet that Bilbo catches with a finger and guides back up towards his opening, circling round the twitching muscle again and again until offering it a slick, teasing rub.

“Ah…”

Thorin’s eyes squeeze shut. Unbidden, his hips grind downward, his cock caught between the press of the mattress and his own stomach. The friction sends glorious, zinging pleasure cascading through him, and Thorin can’t help but repeat the motion, his lips parting in a silent cry when Bilbo chooses that moment to press a single finger inside.

Leisurely, Bilbo stretches him open, pausing occasionally to add another unneeded dab of oil. It spills over Thorin freely, trailing along the curve of his arse, down and over his sack, surely ruining the sheets. _Dirty_ is a word that springs to Thorin’s mind, and it enflames him rather than shames, almost makes him want to hump against the bed and take his release like a rutting, mindless beast.

“You’re beautiful like this, you know,” Bilbo says dreamily. “So relaxed and open for me…”

“Oh,” Thorin breathes, all but whimpering when Bilbo withdraws. “Wait—”

“Roll onto your back,” Bilbo says. 

Thorin is slow to comply. He feels as though he weighs twice as much as he should, his arms shaking as he pushes over, eyelids fighting to drift shut. He shifts away from the wet spot he’s left against the mattress, lying on his back at an angle across the bed. Bilbo returns to his place between Thorin’s parted legs, two fingers nudging back in-between his hard cheeks with ease. Thorin shudders and groans, can feel oil dribbling out from him with each steady push.

“Thorin.”

Thorin lifts his head, greeted by the sight of Bilbo’s mouth hovering enticingly over his flushed cock. His tongue flickers out to press against Thorin’s wet slit, lapping at it until more fluid bubbles up to replace what he’s lapped away.

Thorin pants, “If you want me you should – _oh_ , you… take me before…”

“Later,” Bilbo says. He makes a show of licking his lips as he twists his fingers inside of Thorin, causing his toes to curl and the edges of his vision to crackle. “We have all morning, after all.”

Thorin frowns. Something with that seems amiss, all though it’s difficult to pin down what precisely when Bilbo bows forward to suckle wantonly at his prick. His fingers have settled into a slow shallow rhythm, only occasionally pushing in deep enough to graze against the sensitive spot inside of Thorin that makes him burn with desire.

“There was a meeting,” Thorin says, finally, his tongue slow to shape the words

“Word was sent last night that it had been rescheduled. Did I not tell you?”

The mockingly sweet tone of Bilbo’s voice indicates he knows very well he hadn’t, but in truth Thorin is not able to recall, his thoughts turning sluggish and hazy as he watches Bilbo part his lips and suck him down in one hard, wet slurp. The pace of the fingers inside him quickens, pushing in deep and hard, rubbing against that spot until bliss nearly bleeds over into pain. 

Whatever remains of Thorin’s strength leaves him, his head falling back against the bed, fingers clenching heedlessly at the sheets before he reaches for Bilbo, near desperate to feel the texture of his skin or hair. His knuckles graze Bilbo’s cheek, the edge of his mouth, and with a shaking fingertip Thorin traces the wide stretch of Bilbo’s swollen lips. 

Bilbo moans, the hum of his throat reverberating through Thorin, urging him to lift his head again, to look.

Bilbo’s expression has gone lax with pleasure, his eyes dark and half-lidded, brows arched and pulled in tight. His hips move against the bedspread in small, jerking motions, causing his fingers to flex and his shoulders to tremble. 

The sight is too lovely to bear.

“Bilbo,” Thorin croaks. It’s meant to be a warning, but he’s already spilling over Bilbo’s slithering tongue before he can say anything more, his release coming in a series of hot pulses, spurred on by the steady pump of Bilbo’s fingers. Bilbo moans again, his throat working as overflow fills his cheeks. He pulls away only when he can swallow no more, the heat of his mouth replaced by the soothing friction of his hand, urging one final spurt from Thorin before his pleasure begins to wane.

“Wicked little creature,” Thorin murmurs, as fondly as he would tell Bilbo that he loves him. He lets out a strange, airy laugh, feeling nearly light-headed and giddy, wrung out yet rejuvenated. He reaches for Bilbo, catching his hand and guiding him up over the expanse of his shivering, sweaty body, gathering him close in his arms despite the mess now drying on his skin.

“I think I’ve been more than generous,” Bilbo says, sounding breathless. Thorin looks at him, taking in the wild dark of Bilbo’s eyes, the rich colour painting his throat. He has his own cock in hand, thumbing over the swollen head, and a small, whimpering noise escapes him when Thorin breaks his grip, taking Bilbo by the wrist and knitting their fingers together.

“Thorin—”

“Let me run a bath,” he says, lips touching the tip of Bilbo’s nose, drifting along his smooth, round cheek. 

Bilbo makes a weak, mewling sound, his cock leaving a sticky smear against Thorin’s hip. Thorin shifts in the pretense of comfort, smiling at the whine that escapes Bilbo when the motion causes his cock to rub over Thorin’s belly. 

“Thorin…” Bilbo says again. “I need—I _need_ …”

“Hush,” Thorin tells him. “You can wait a little longer for what you want, surely?”

Bilbo huffs, displeased lines marking his brow. “You’re going to pay for this, you know.”

“I do hope so,” Thorin says, placing a final kiss against Bilbo’s hair before slipping from the bed. He moves towards the bathroom, turning to cast his parting comment off from over his shoulder, grinning at the unimpressed look Bilbo greets him with. 

“You’re still meant to take me, after all.”


End file.
